


To Live or To Serve

by nickahontas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Death Eaters, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Ravenclaw, Self-Insert, Tragedy, Triad - MMF, grey morality, not a romance but previous instances of, unlikable narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickahontas/pseuds/nickahontas
Summary: This is the story of Lydia Bones, a perfectly normal and average person that chose to become a Death Eater over dying.———Lydia is called to heal Bellatrix Lestrange in the summer. She is unconscious. One arm is only hanging on by the ligaments and her chest is banded with deep scars. It would be so very, very easy to let her die. To bathe her in green light.But Lydia doesn't give a damn about a newborn boy named Neville and the most she cares about Sirius Black is to hate him. Their lives are not worth her own.The Dark Lord watches her work with glittering red eyes.———Lydia was never a huge Harry Potter fan. She only ever watched the movies with her sister on snowy days, so she didn’t realize what world she’d woken up in until her new brother went to Hogwarts when she was four. Before long, she went off to Hogwarts, where she met Sirius Black’s brother (who she knows is going to die, even if she doesn’t remember how) and Barty Crouch Jr (who she knows is a ‘bad guy’, even if she doesn’t remember why). Now, she’s graduated and Voldemort is knocking at her door and she isn’t Dumbledore. She isn’t brave or talented enough to tell him no.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Original Female Character(s), Narcissa Malfoy & Original Female Character(s), Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Severus Snape & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 58





	To Live or To Serve

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This was supposed to be a one-shot, but I’ve finished with the first part so I didn’t see a reason to wait to post it. 
> 
> THIS IS NOT A ROMANCE, but it does describe Lydia’s previous romantic relationship with Regulus in this first part. It is important to the plot.

She knows her world is ended when Barty and Reg pull her aside after Astronomy class. Barty stands in front of a tapestry depicting the night sky. The stars seem to mirror his cheerful freckles. Regulus, black haired and pale-skinned, the moon to Barty’s sun, smiles down at her softly as he speaks.

They sell it well. Their master would be proud.

“I can’t,” she whispers. “I’m not that sort of person. I’m not...I’m not brave or powerful or angry. I’m just...I’m just me. I’m just Lydia.”

A frantic burst of energy jolts through Barty. His fingers twitch, his shoulders tense, and his tongue makes a funny little dart across his lips. Regulus, by contrast, softens even more. His eyes melt into a puddle of silver and his calloused hands are gentle when he tucks a lock of copper hair behind her ear.

“And that’s why we love you, Lydia Bones,” he says.

This time, the swoop of warm emotions in her chest isn’t enough to keep the fear and restlessness at bay. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and peers up at Barty. He’s more cute than handsome, just as Regulus is more striking than attractive, and Lydia is more pretty than beautiful. It’s Barty’s mind she and Reg are drawn to, sharper than any blade.

“Barty,” she says. “I don’t have it in me. I just don’t care about the Dark Lord or muggleborns. There’s no point in it. None of them will ever care about me. Not like you two do.”

Because he does love her, she knows. Part of him always will. They’re tied together in a way that Regulus can never understand. Lydia knew full well what kind of witch she was by her second year. She’s too curious and selfish for the gentler types of magic to answer her call. Flitwick understood, but he couldn’t make her family understand. They gave her access to her trust vault on her fifteenth birthday and sent her on her merry way. It’s an open secret that Bartemius Senior would have done the same if he were capable of siring another child.

Barty finally gives in at whatever he reads in her expression. He sighs and bends down to press his lips to her forehead, and Regulus cards his fingers through Barty’s blond hair. Lydia lets herself bask in their warmth a moment. Allows herself to believe the lies she tells herself for just a little bit longer.

* * *

Reg and Barty are initiated together that summer. They spend the next three days recuperating in Grimmauld Place’s gloomy halls. Regulus takes it particularly hard. His mother, father, and Grandfather Arcturus find Lydia sponging the sweat from his brow on the first night.

“Your kind is not welcome here, half-breed,” Walburga Black hisses.

Lydia never looks away from Regulus as she says, “The Dark Lord was just here, was he not?”

The Blacks are quiet for a long moment, the tense silence punctuated by Regulus’s harsh pants. 

“How do you know about that?” Orion Black asks curiously.

“My great-great-grandmother may have been a muggleborn, but my family is powerful in its own right, Mr. Black. There is a reason the Dark Lord himself is after my brother Edgar.”

“Proud of them, are you?”

“I don’t care for them either way,” she says honestly.

“Yes, I’ve heard all about you,” Arcturus Black needles. “The black sheep of the Bones family.”

“A less impressive foil to your Sirius, no?”

“You dare-“ Mrs. Black begins, but her husband is quick to shush her, shooting a panicked glance at their son.

Arcturus Black sighs. “It could be worse. You’ve got a spine, it seems, and I suppose fourth generation is technically pureblood, what with the matches your family has made. Not as pure as I’d like, but with a Crouch and a triad, no one will begrudge us a love match. There hasn’t been a triad in nearly a century. You’ll bear the Black heir first, of course, and-“

“You’re fools.”

“Would you care to repeat that?” He inquires, too casually for comfort.

Lydia doesn’t balk. She stands, wiping her hands on a towel, and meets their gazes head on. It’s intimidating, but she holds herself steady. If she can’t handle them, she’ll never be able to handle Voldemort when he comes knocking.

“I said you’re a bunch of fools,” she repeats in a calm voice. “The picture you’ve painted is a pretty one, but it’s just that. A picture. There is no future. There is only the war.”

“You doubt the Dark Lord?” Orion Black asks.

Something in his inquisitive manner puts her in mind of Sirius Black. He was always demanding Flitwick’s time or experimenting with his prank potions in the student lab. And he was always unabashedly curious about his estranged brother’s partner. He never hesitated to plop down beside her in the lab and demand she answer his questions, ever the protective older brother even after he’d been kicked out. 

“Dumbledore was in love with Grindelwald,” Lydia says. “He has no reason to show Tom Riddle mercy. They’re going to rip this country apart with this war of theirs and we’re going to be the ones to suffer for it.”

“The Dark Lord-“

“Doesn’t give a fuck about any of us. We’re just his playthings. His branded property.”

Arcturus Black actually winces at that. He shoots his grandson a fearful glance.

“Even if I marry Regulus, he will never be mine. He will never be yours again either. He’ll never even know what it’s like to be his own man, if he manages to live that long.”

Orion Black squeezes his wife’s hand as she takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“And what about your Crouch boy?” He wonders.

Lydia gives him a small, sad smile. “He hasn’t been ours for quite some time now. We just don’t want to admit it to ourselves.”

* * *

Barty is the first to go. It’s made all the more painful by how long it takes. He disappears for days at a time, then weeks. Regulus stops waiting for him. He invites Lydia over to Grimmauld Place, where they read and practice magic and play chess with his father and cousin Narcissa.

Lydia doesn’t bother going back to Hogwarts. She buys a building off of Knockturn and takes her NEWTs at the Ministry. It is expected of the boys though, so she sees them off at the Platform. She knows, deep in her bones, that is the last time she will speak with Barty as his lover.

Sure enough, Regulus shows up at her door that first Saturday with tears of betrayal in his eyes and magic flickering at his fingertips.

“Rabastan,” he chokes out. “Rabastan fucking Lestrange.”

She pulls him inside and leads him up to the space above her shop. It’s a dreary place, but it has a lab, a storefront, and a flat. It’s all she needs. 

“No, Regulus,” she says as she tugs at his belt. “It’s Riddle. Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

* * *

The Dark Lord comes for her in November. He steps into her lab and begins nosing around as if they were the best of friends. Lydia clenches her jaw and continues dicing dugbog livers. He’s handsome, even with the alabaster skin and unnaturally gaunt features. He must have been beautiful once. There’s still something alluring about him, about how he wears his power like a king’s mantle.

“Your wards are very impressive.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she says, still cutting through the thick meat.

“I was told you are a potions expert. Barty failed to mention your proficiency with runes.”

“I’ve always loved the old magics, my lord. Those that predate standardized Latin spellcasting.”

He hums thoughtfully and ladles veritaserum out of a pewter cauldron. He examines it with a practiced eye before nodding over at one of his followers. There are two of them loitering on the wooden stairs in bone masks and voluminous black robes. One, she knows, is Rabastan Lestrange. It’s exactly the sort of mind game Voldemort would play. The other sweeps across the room to dip a long, pale finger into the half-finished potion. Lucius Malfoy, maybe. The husband of a friend would soften her up a bit. Or perhaps Severus Snape. A colleague and peer.

The Dark Lord strides over to stand at her side. He watches her methodically slice through the livers with steady hands.

“I am also told that you are proficient in healing.”

“I have a talent for it.”

“And you never nurtured it?”

Lydia shrugs. “I never really cared enough about other people to help them.”

The Dark Lord laughs. It isn’t the cruel, maniacal sound that she was expecting. It is warm and rich and ostensibly genuine.

“Why weren’t you sorted into my house, Lydia Bones?”

Unfortunately, Lydia has run out of livers to slice. She wipes the blood from her hands on a towel and brushes her fringe from her eyes. She’d much rather move on to grinding the hellebore, but that would be cowardly. He’ll kill her outright if she doesn’t prove interesting.

“I’ve never been ambitious,” she says, talking at his broad chest. “I’ve always just wanted to be left alone in my lab.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his full, pale lips pull up into a smile.

“Are hinting for me to leave, child?”

Lydia sighs. She collapses back onto her stool and rubs her eyes wearily.

“I don’t know what you expect me to be, but I’m not it,” she says, staring down at the black countertop. “I don’t give a fuck about any of it. I just want to be left alone with Regulus.”

“Not Barty?”

She looks up at that.

“You stole him from me, just like you’re stealing Reggie, and I will never forgive you for that.” 

Behind her, the closest Death Eater sucks in a sharp breath.

“There is nothing you could possibly do to win my loyalty. I’ll keep my head down and make you potions if you want, but there’s no point in recruiting me. I’m not what you want. I’m not like any of you. I’m not itching for a fight.”

Her heart thuds in her chest as if struggling to escape her ribs. If he doesn’t kill her for her cheek, she is going to die of cardiac arrest. 

Miraculously, he smiles, a wide grin that reveals straight white teeth and crinkles the corners of his scarlet eyes. He must have been _stunning_.

“There you are,” he breathes, leaning forward to capture her left wrist. He brushes his thumb back and forth in an easy rhythm. “I was wondering what could have enthralled two men as promising as our own.”

She shudders at the implication of that possessive ‘our’. She doesn’t want to share anything with Voldemort. She doesn’t want anything to do with him at all. As if sensing her thoughts, his smile widens monstrously. He shoves the sleeve of her purple robes back to marvel at the pale, unblemished expanse of skin, still carrying on with that incessant mocking caress.

“You are under the illusion that you have a choice in the matter, Ms. Bones. I want you and what Lord Voldemort wants-“

Wizards, Lydia has learned, do not do well with physicality. They don’t expect it. Even families like the Bones and Potters consider muggle brawling beneath them. Only the House of Black kept up with non-magical combat, and that’s just because the whole lot of them are bloodthirsty maniacs. Lydia has never been particularly violent or athletic, but she knew what was coming, so she signed up for classes and borrowed a book from Regulus. It was a fascinating book. Co-authored by goblins, somehow. It only took a silver blade, three runes, and a little sacrifice to ensure that she would never be defenseless.

Tom Riddle is not most wizards. He grew up as a street rat in the East End during a the Blitz. So when Lydia summons her silver blade and jabs at his wrist, he doesn’t bother going for his wand. He has her disarmed and flat on her back before she even realizes he moved.

She lies panting on the countertop, trying to steady herself against the inertia and pain. A pair of glinting crimson eyes appears in her line of vision. The Dark Lord hovers over her with an expression of chilling exultation.

“Oh, you clever girl,” he laughs. “You have your Lord’s attention now.”

He grinds the point of his wand into her neck and she desperately tries to unclench the muscles in her body.

“ _Crucio_.”

* * *

Lucius Malfoy is in charge of her aftercare. He is surprisingly gentle. He even goes so far as to wash her hair in the sink and plait it down her back. When she asks why, he is quiet for a long time.

“Three reasons,” he finally says. “My Narcissa has lost nearly everything. One sister betrayed her for love, another for madness, and Merlin knows why Sirius Black does anything. Regulus and I are all she has left. We are family, you and I. Our children will be as good as siblings. “

He pauses to tie her braid off with a silver ribbon from his pocket.

“In addition, I suspect our roles will be reversed in the months to come. The Dark Lord has ordered that you brush up on your healing skills. It is only common sense that I treat you well now if my life will soon be in your hands.”

“And the third?”

His gray eyes lock onto her blue ones in the mirror.

“You pulled a knife on the Dark Lord and he laughed.” He places his hands on her shoulders and gently squeezes. “You may not be ‘ _like any of us_ ’, but you’re no less dangerous.”

She stares at her reflection for a half hour after he leaves. She looks the same, almost. Red hair, thin brows, straight nose. Round face, soft lips, slender curves. The only difference is the haunted darkness in her eyes and the black brand on her arm.   
  


* * *

Regulus is the next to leave her. It’s made all the more painful by how long it takes.

He takes one look at her Mark and thunders out the door. She’s frightened enough to go to Grimmauld Place. She and Walburga wring their hands in the basement kitchen until Orion and Arcturus return with him at almost three in the morning. Regulus smells faintly of smoke and is covered in blood. Lydia takes him to bed and asks if he wants to talk about it. He says no. She doesn’t press. 

He becomes more and more withdrawn. He spends days in the family library and disappears for weeks at a time. Lydia is too overworked with her own tasks to interfere. She is called to the Dark Lord at least four nights a week to treat his soldiers and scheduled to help Snape in the lab every morning. Throughout it all, she becomes worried and fearful and retreats into her own research.

It all comes to head in late autumn. She gives him the ring she’s worked so hard on. It is a permanent portkey capable of tearing through even the most stringent blood wards. He kisses her for it and fucks her hard against the drawing room wall. The war has made them both desperate. Needy. They savor every touch and kiss and whisper like it’s their last. It very well could be.

Early in November, he locks them in her flat for a day. She can tell it is a goodbye in the way that he touches her. His hands are reverential, humble, disbelieving. When he leaves at dawn, she begs him not to go. He makes love with her one last time, then calls for his oldest friend.

It is not the last she sees of him.She will forever wish it was.

He crashes onto her coffee table just after noon. A leg is missing and his face has been chewed and clawed into a red pulp. He screams and bleeds and cries for Lydia and Barty and Sirius, I need Sirius, please, please where is Sirius.

He dies bathed in green light.   
  


* * *

Barty asks after him once. Lucius is the one heal him.

The Dark Lord asks after him once. Severus is the one to heal her.

* * *

Lydia attaches herself to Severus. They lose themselves in their potions and spells and bitterness. Soon, they are inseparable. They grow to understand how the other’s mind works intuitively. Lydia will pass ingredients to him before he asks and Severus will know which book she needs before she can work it out herself.

The Dark Lord takes notice. His foreboding interest is renewed. He pairs them together in the dueling rounds. They fight their way through the inner circle, one by one, until Evan Rosier duels them to a standstill. It isn’t that Lydia is particular talented. It’s just that Severus is a force of nature when he doesn’t have to worry about defending himself.

They are ordered to lead raids together. Neither of them take pleasure in the violence. They secede command to one of the grunts and experiment with the more destructive magics on the villages instead. It takes Severus five towns to master fiendfyre. Lydia never does, but she manages to summon two rounds of lightning and conjure a tornado. 

The Dark Lord is pleased. There is nothing so terrifying as his pleasure.

* * *

Lydia is called to heal Bellatrix Lestrange in the summer. She is unconscious. One arm is only hanging on by the ligaments and her chest is banded with deep scars. It would be so very, very easy to let her die. To bathe her in green light.

But Lydia doesn't give a damn about a newborn boy named Neville and the most she cares about Sirius Black is to hate him. Their lives are not worth her own.

The Dark Lord watches her work with glittering red eyes.

* * *

Severus bangs on her flat door only a month later. He throws himself at her feet and buries his face in her robes. Lydia sighs, runs her hand through his hair, and thrusts a calming draught in his shaking hands.

She is the one to apparate them to Hogwarts. 

* * *

They vote to give her Veritaserum because of her family connections.

Her sister’s lips are pinched tight and Barty’s father is staring down at her coldly. The Wizenmagot is restless with anticipation and predatory glee. This more than just a trial. It's quality entertainment. The DMLE Undersecretary's last surviving sibling stands accused of war crimes, terrorism, and murder. They almost cheer when the final drop of Veritaserum falls on her tongue.

Lydia's mind relaxes in a way it hasn't since she was fourteen. The tense silence of the courtroom is pleasant. Soothing. The shadows, so nefarious and looming before, are calming.

"State your name," a man's crisp voice orders. 

She knows that voice. She hates that voice. She hates that man and everything he's done to his son.

"Lydia Marie Bones."

"Your father's name."

"Sebastian Ray Bones."

"Your Hogwarts house."

"Ravenclaw."

"The Veritaserum is working correctly," another man says.

"When were you marked as a Death Eater?" Crouch demands.

"November of 1978."

"What role did you serve as a Death Eater?"

"Their healer, primarily."

"Primarily. What other crimes did you commit?"

"Objection," Amelia says. Graying auburn hair, square jaw, grandfather's monocle. She’s aged a decade in the past year. "Question does not fit the parameters of veritaserum."

Crouch grunts in reluctant agreement. "What other primary duties did you perform for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" He asks instead.

"I brew potions. Research. Lead raids. Combat, though that is fairly rare."

"Why was it rare?" Amelia asks.

“My expertise does not lie in dueling. I am an excellent healer and a potions master in all but name."

"Did you take pride in that?" Crouch asks drily.

"Yes. The Dark Lord is a cruel master, yet he is pleased with my work."

"And did that make you proud? To have him so pleased with you?"

"No."

A low rumble of whispers breaks out across the crowded stands.

"Explain," Crouch snaps.

"It made me nervous. It is best to avoid his attention as much as possible. His pleasure can become displeasure in the blink of an eye.”

A ragged old man with a prosthetic eye clambers to his feet. Alastor Moody, the man that killed Evan Rosier. Even in her drugged state, her body jumps to attention, the incantation to summon her knife ready on her lips.

“You regret joinin' up, then?" he asks, grinning maliciously.

"Yes and no."

"What do you mean by that?!" Crouch demands.

"I never wanted to join the Dark Lord, but I accepted my fate once I had. No use crying over spilt milk, as the muggles say."

Another round of murmurs rises in the audience. Amelia leans over her podium, her monocle glinting in the light.

"How do you feel about muggles?" she asks.

"I don't care about them either way."

A mix of exasperation and anger flashes across her face. "Then why did you slaughter them?!"

"I didn't."

"You said you led raids!" Crouch cries.

"I did."

Crouch exhales a sigh and begins massaging his eyes. Albus Dumbledore, of all people, takes pity on him. He stands, somehow foreboding in his sunflower yellow robes, and looks down at Lydia with a carefully blank expression.

"Lydia, please walk us through a typical raid you were commanded to lead."

"The Dark Lord would give us a location," she promptly recites. "Severus and I-"

"Severus, as in Severus Snape," Amelia cuts in.

"Yes."

She nods briskly. "Proceed."

"Severus or I created a portkey-"

"You created a portkey," Crouch deadpans. "The both of you, barely out of Hogwarts, routinely created portkeys."

"Yes, of course."

Eyebrows raise. One of the elder witches in the plum Wizenmagot robes considers her with new interest.

"Carry on,” Amelia sighs, waving her hand in exasperation.

“Upon our arrival, Severus and I would put someone else in charge and go off on our own to experiment with new spells.”

Moody makes a sound between amusement and contempt.

“Were you practicing dark magic?” Crouch barks.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Bartemius!” Amelia cries. “Of course they were practicing dark magic! You accuse me of wasting time and resources on _'frivolous inquiries_ ', but that’s the worst yet!” Her exasperation quickly hardens into acerbity as she turns to glower down at Lydia. "Are you loyal to the Dark Lord?"

“No.”

“Were you ever?”

“No.”

Someone in the stands lets out a frustrated groan and Dumbledore rises once again to intervene.

“Tell us how you came to be in Voldemort’s service,” he says. “Tell us about your initiation.”

“I was preparing potions ingredients- livers of some kind, maybe- when the Dark Lord strode in with two Death Eaters. He said he was impressed with my wards. I thanked him and continued chopping livers. Dugbog livers. There weren’t many left, but I needed to appear unafraid, so I kept working.

“He inspected a brewing potion, gave his approval, then stood beside me. He said that Barty-“ The entire room takes a collective breath, but Lydia is too intoxicated to stop rambling. “-mentioned that I have a talent for healing. I confirmed that I did. He asked why I did not become a healer. I told him that I didn’t care about people enough to help them.”

“Is that true?” Amelia asks, almost hesitantly.

“Yes. I don’t believe in caring for someone that will not care for me in return.”

Amelia’s body folds in on itself. She nods tightly, motioning for Lydia to continue.

“The Dark Lord asked why I wasn’t sorted into Slytherin. I told him it was because I was not ambitious, that I only wanted to be left alone in my lab. He asked if I was hinting for him to leave.”

“He didn’t!” an elderly woman gasps.

“He did. The Dark Lord is very charming when he wants to be. He has a very dry and dark sense of humor.”

“Go on, Lydia,” Amelia orders softly.

“I grew tired all at once. I was under a lot of stress already, and I was terrified. I decided to tell him the truth. I told him that I wasn’t who he wanted me to be. That I did not care either way about the war. I only wanted to be left alone to study magic with Regulus. He asked, ‘Not Barty?’ and I wanted to claw his eyes out with my bare hands.”

A man in pinstiroed robes is absolutely riveted. He is perched on the edge of his seat with his fingers digging into the barrier. “What did you do?”

“I told Voldemort that he stole Barty from me, like he was stealing Regulus, and I would never forgive him for it.”

Fudge glances nervously at Crouch, who has turned a violent shade of puce. His lips are pressed into a line as sharp and thin as the part in his hair.

“What happened next?” Amelia asks.

“I explained that there was no point in recruiting me. I promised to keep my head down and supply him with potions, but it wasn’t enough. He grabbed my wrist, said he always got what he wanted, and started to raise his wand. So I summoned my dagger and attempted to stab him.”

Mad-Eye Moody bursts into thunderous laughter at the same time Fudge gasps out, “You _didn’t_!”

“I did. I knew I needed to keep him entertained.”

“What did he do?!”

“He laughed, called me a clever girl, and told me I had his attention. He tortured me, branded me, and ordered Lucius to ensure I survived.”

“Why the bloody hell didn’t you come to me?!” Amelia suddenly explodes. “Why didn’t you come to any of your family?! We would have-“

“Amelia,” Dumbledore says, very quietly.

She lets out a shuddering breath and closes her eyes.

"Lydia," Dumbledore says, "If Voldemort were to return, would you willingly rejoin his ranks?"

"No." 

"Do you consider yourself a danger to yourself or others?"

"Yes."

The shocked whispers return again. They rumble like a thundercloud until Crouch bangs his gavel three times.

"Explain yourself!" He demands.

"I want to kill Sirius Black and shove the Draught of Despair down your son's throat."

"Yes. Well. One is in Azkaban and the other is in custody," Amelia says, casting a worried glance at the man beside her. Crouch's hands are trembling. When he makes no move to speak, she turns to address the Wizenmagot. "Do we have sufficient information for a vote?"

A unanimous "aye" echoes through the chambers.

"Very well. Raise your wand if you believe Lydia Marie Bones is guilty of being a Death Eater and all of the crimes associated with it." 

Only ten or so people raise their wands, Barty's father among them. It's disconcerting to feel so indifferent. She should feel relieved or triumphant or amused that she isn't going to Azkaban. Instead, she just feels numb, and she doesn't think it's the Veritaserum 


End file.
